


Empathy

by darthearts



Category: Momoland (Band)
Genre: Ahin as cameo, F/F, JooE as cameo, kind of like a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:40:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthearts/pseuds/darthearts
Summary: Yeonwoo is approached by an idol trainee, who asks her if she could listen to her sing. Yeonwoo would've said no, if not for the tears in her eyes.





	Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> This is all thanks to Yeonwoo and her solo bridge part in Bboom Bboom. (I should edit this but I'll do it later ;;)

The collar of her blouse feels a little too tight for Yeonwoo to breathe. Her eyelids are heavy, and she knows she can probably fall asleep standing up if not for the dull ache in her feet. She usually wears flats instead of heels but there was an important meeting today and she wanted to feel empowered. (She feels anything but empowered now.) The workbag slung on her shoulder is weighty with work that she could not finish and the thought of all the reports she needs to complete sends a dull throb to her temple. She closes her eyes and sighs, rolling her shoulder to alleviate her tensed muscles.

Leaning against the train door, she looks outside, taking in the view. The sky now is a canvas dowsed with black, the darkness a sharp contrast to the tall buildings that illuminate their surroundings with light. There are no stars and the moon is partially hidden by clouds—Yeonwoo remembers a different sky in her hometown, dotted with bright stars, their light never outshined by high-rise buildings. When she was young, her father used to tell her that no matter where she went, if she felt lonely, all she needed to do was look up because they were all under the same sky. (Her father was wrong.)

The train doors open, snapping her out of her reverie. People flood in even though it is already long past the evening rush hour. The sudden influx of people causes Yeonwoo to move to the middle of the carriage. She glances around, noticing how exhausted everyone else in the train looks. They are all probably just like her: office workers who do lots of overtime, suffering from a chronic lack of sleep. It’s an exhaustion that is beyond physical tiredness, it is a kind of world-weariness, jadedness that comes with becoming an adult.

The train jerks and she stumbles, trying to regain her balance. She accidentally bumps into a man dressed in a white shirt, business pants and black tie. The man glares at her, clicking his tongue loudly in disapproval as he readjusts his tie. She can only mumble an apology, bowing slightly and lowering her head in embarrassment. Her eyes dart around; no one has even bothered to pay attention to their exchange, wrapped in their own world. She almost feels detached from reality—if not for the low rumble of the train and the vibrations beneath her feet, she might just think that she and the other passengers on the train are of different worlds.

The intercom sounds and announces the next train station. The train slows, jerking once more before completely stopping. Yeonwoo recognizes this train station as her stop and she squeezes past clothed bodies to exit the train. Once she steps on to the platform, she huffs a sigh, relieved that she is finally one step closer to her apartment. She can feel the sleep making its claim on her, lethargy already spreading through out her body.

Fishing out her transport card, she hurries towards the gantry, wanting to get home as soon as possible. Just before she leaves the train station, she passes by a young busker. Yeonwoo barely catches the sign placed beside the busker. _I am an idol trainee. I dream to debut and perform on stage. Please listen to my voice._

The busker is a young and pretty thing, Yeonwoo notes. The girl has a voice that reminds Yeonwoo of Disney princesses who sashay in extravagant gowns and wear diamond crowns.  It is not difficult to imagine the busker on stage, performing as an idol. But it is also not difficult to walk on without batting an eyelash at the girl. After all, this girl is not her business. She has other pressing issues to attend to.

So Yeonwoo doesn’t stop, walks past the girl entirely, heels clicking as she joins the rest of the people leaving the train station. Gradually, the girl’s voice fades as Yeonwoo gets further and further away.

Soon, the girl’s voice is drowned out by the noise of the crowd—and the girl’s brief existence withers and wanes away, almost like she never existed.

///

Yeonwoo comes home to an empty apartment. It used to bother her—the emptiness, the silence, the darkness—but it has become routine. (Yeonwoo doesn’t know why it’s starting to bother her again.) She switches on the lights, setting her bag on her desk. Her fingers fly up to unbutton her collar, but she still feels just as stifled. Even though she takes a deep breath, it still feels like she has got her head under water.

Exhaling loudly, she fishes out her laptop, preparing herself to burn the midnight oil to finish her work. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she digs it out, sees a new text message. The message preview reads _Yeonwoo, when are you coming home? Your father and I miss you._ Her grip on the phone tightens at the message and she stares and stares at the words until the screen turns dark. Even if she no longer sees the message, she can feel the words being imprinted on to her skin, burning her like ice.

Home. Yeonwoo wants to go home.

Home means smiles that are filled with light, hugs that are long and warm, and eyes that only hold a love so real. But home also means saggy, wrinkled skin beside sunny smiles, thin, fragile arms around her waist during warm hugs, and deep-set crowfeet at the corner of eyes that still only ever hold love.

How can she frantically seek and shamelessly receive a love that she cannot return?

Inhaling sharply, she shakily places her phone on the table, running a trembling hand through her hair. She sits down, feeling her legs lose their strength. She buries her face in her hands, wishing she could run away, but reality anchors and weighs her down heavily still. Warm moisture gathers at the corners of her eyes and she laughs wryly—she thought she ran dry a long time ago.

She glances at her open laptop, sees the unfinished document. She watches the cursor blink for a long time, just stares as it appears and disappears like a signal, like it’s foreboding the persistent blank whiteness that comes after it.

Empty.

Yeonwoo only barely manages to tear her eyes away from her laptop screen when her phone vibrates continuously due to a call from work. A brief exchange with her colleague informs her that her department head is going off on a business trip, which means the deadline for her reports have been delayed. She ends the call by thanking her colleague, grateful for the short break that has been given to her.

Precariously tossing her phone on to the nearby couch, she is once again faced with her incomplete report. She sighs, deciding not to think too much about it and closing her laptop. She gets up and takes a quick shower before heading for bed.

She turns off all the lights as she climbs into bed, getting beneath her covers. It will never be as warm as the one back home, but this will have to do. She exhales, knowing that sleep will not come easily this time even though her body is desperate for rest. She closes her eyes, realizing how it wasn’t any different when her eyes were open. The darkness still surrounds her, chills her to the bone.

Yeonwoo wonders why she never leaves a light on for herself.

///

The ache is in her lower back now instead of her feet; Probably the result of sitting at her desk in one position for too long. Her fingers try to knead the spots where it hurts most but she suspects that the pain will not go away with a simple massage.

The train is significantly less packed today, mostly attributed to the fact that she is released early from work thanks to her boss being on a business trip. She hasn’t eaten anything since lunch and since she doesn’t need to work overtime, she can grab dinner instead of take-outs or sandwiches. She busies herself with considering what to eat because she knows that if she doesn’t, her mind will stray and lead her to dark places she’d rather not be in.

She has always been good at that—distracting herself with the most mundane of things so that she doesn’t pick at her wounds. But lately, it has gotten harder (there are only so many banal things to think about in this mortal coil), especially at night, when the sun is down and the darkness creeps into her bed and into her heart. The thoughts make her dig into her skin, claw into wounds that cannot heal.

In the mornings, Yeonwoo manages, puts on makeup and presentable clothes, hides her fatigue, her thoughts, her wounds. She still manages to fulfil her responsibilities, complete presentations, make jokes and gossip with her colleagues at the pantry. She functions well and convincingly—so convincingly that she knows no one will be able to understand.

The intercom pings and announces the incoming train station and look, her thoughts are out of her control again. She chastises herself, once again wondering about dinner. She hasn’t had ramen for a while now, so she might enter a small ramen stall just around the corner of her apartment complex. The ramen served there is tasty, the noodles springy, and the soup light and refreshing. There are few customers there, so the serenity is a bonus as well. Yes, a warm bowl of ramen sounds just about right.

The train jerks to a stop and Yeonwoo manages not to lose her balance this time. The doors slide open and she steps out of the train, tapping her card to get through the gantry. For once, there isn’t a lot of human traffic and she doesn’t have to squeeze her way out of the train station.

Just as she is about to leave, she feels a fragile hand on her elbow, a touch so light that she would not have noticed if she were in a large crowd. She jerks slightly in surprise, turning around to be greeted by a stranger. The stranger has her head down, jet black hair concealing her face.

“Sorry, do you need something?” Yeonwoo asks, confusion colouring her voice.

The girl lifts her head a little at the question. Her eyes peek out from between dark tresses and then Yeonwoo notices—a moist shimmer at the corners of her eyes. She does a double-take at the girl, suddenly recognizing her as the idol trainee who busks at the station every day without rest. She realizes how the girl’s shoulders are slouched and squared in, how her hands are shaking, how her eyes are so, so dark—almost as dark as her own. She quickly scans her surroundings, inwardly sighing when no one even cares to take a second look at this girl who looks visibly distraught.

She turns towards the girl, gently asking again, “Is something wrong?”

The girl blinks, tears escaping and staining her cheeks with wetness. And then her face contorts, as if a sharp pain just coursed through her. The girl is gasping, chest heaving, quaking hands desperately clutching on to Yeonwoo’s blouse, crumpling the fabric. Yeonwoo rests her own hand above the girl’s trembling ones because she _knows_ , knows how it feels to fall apart and then pretend to have been pieced back together.

With quivering lips, the girl chokes out, “Can you _please_ listen to my voice?”

And Yeonwoo says yes.

///

Yeonwoo’s routine changes in the subtlest of ways after that. She still does overtime, still works into the wee hours of the morning, but everyday after she gets off work and heads home, she stops at her train station to listen to a girl sing.

It really isn’t much, but Yeonwoo finds herself humming songs on her way home after that, finds herself completing work faster, finds that it is easier to wake up the next morning. She does not know exactly what about the girl makes things less difficult—the girl’s smile every time she appears, the girl’s pretty voice, or the look in her eyes when she listens to her sing.

Honestly, Yeonwoo would have said no, if not for the tears and desperation in the girl’s eyes. She saw a type of world-weariness that she herself is familiar with, which is why she bit her tongue and agreed. She learns that the girl’s name is Nancy, that her parents are all the way in America and she is all alone here training as an idol, and that she busks at the train station every evening.

They hardly ever talk when they meet. Usually, Yeonwoo just stands around while Nancy sings her heart out. She just quietly listens to Nancy’s voice, closing her eyes and letting herself fall into heartfelt melodies. Sometimes it’s bubbly pop, other times it’s smooth jazz.

Yeonwoo loves the soulful, heart-wrenching ballads best. They bring out the shine in Nancy’s voice the most. When Nancy sings ballads, she reveals a kind of vulnerability and fragility in her voice—and it sounds so real. She sounds like she has gone through a thousand breakups and she has got open wounds all over her skin. Nancy colours heartache in her voice and when Yeonwoo lets herself drown in it, she can feel her own wounds sting.

And when Yeonwoo opens her eyes, Nancy is always wearing the most heart-breaking expressions, eyes so empty and dark, Yeonwoo sees herself in them.

“Why do you look like that whenever I sing sad songs?” Nancy once asked, looking so lost.

Yeonwoo had no idea how she even looked like. Was her expression so unexpected that Nancy looked so perplexed and helpless?

Blinking twice in confusion, she asked, “What do I look like?

“Like me.”

When Nancy said that, Yeonwoo felt a new warmth seep into her. It is a foreign emotion that she cannot identify, but it is still there, settled comfortably next to her heart. It doesn’t clean her wounds or fix them up, no, it doesn’t even lessen the pain. What she does know is that it at least chases away the chill in her bones so that she doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

At one point, she asks Nancy if she could record her voice. She knows it is weird, somewhat disturbing even, but she figures that the idea is similar to a studio album, only that it isn’t professionally produced and that it is only for Yeonwoo to listen to. She cannot help it—clinging on to the warmth that she has always craved.

Nancy hardly finds it creepy, absolutely and completely willing to let Yeonwoo make a personal recording of her own voice. They exchange numbers and Nancy starts sending voice recordings of herself singing. When Yeonwoo is unable to fall asleep, Nancy calls her at three in the morning, softly sings her favourite songs, gently lulling Yeonwoo to sleep and dream.

Yeonwoo sleeps best that way, with her favourite voice warming her, driving away the cold that accompanies the darkness. And then she dreams of light and the voice that she has grown to love.

///

This evening has Yeonwoo hurrying to leave the train platform towards the spot where Nancy busks. Her feet and back are aching but the pain is tossed to the back of her head nowadays. Somehow, these things seem menial and irrelevantly lately.

Nancy is in the middle of a song, but she manages to spot her pushing her way through the crowd. Yeonwoo watches a smile form on Nancy’s face, lips spreading into a wide grin. Her happiness comes through in her voice, tone brighter and chirpier. She continues strumming her guitar, eyes forming crescent moons. In a crowd of people, she only sees Yeonwoo.

Yeonwoo slows her pace down to a walk, slowly (but steadily) approaching the busker. She cannot help but smile, feeling a lot lighter, feeling warmth inch its way into her heart. She yearns to feel even more of it. She wants it to thrum in her veins, wants it to settle in her heart. She wonders, wishes that if she listens to this girl’s voice long enough, she’ll finally be able to feel the light of the sun dancing on her skin.

When she finally stands in front of her, Nancy is singing the last lines of the song, her voice floating and fading. Yeonwoo claps—the only one to do so, Nancy’s only audience.

“I love your voice,” Yeonwoo compliments, flashing a smile at the singer.

“You’re the only person who has ever told me that,” Nancy mumbles, shyly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m sure everyone will love your voice when you make your debut.”

“I hope so.”

“Even if they don’t, you know I’ll always listen to your voice,” Yeonwoo says.

It is a compliment but somehow, the words taste more like a confession, like a love letter on her tongue. She bites her tongue, wishing that it would just dissolve away, and she can pretend that the words do not mean more than they already do. It confuses her because she can no longer tell if this warmth she feels is out of pure empathy alone.

She understands Nancy. They are both far from home, with only loneliness to accompany them, stuck in a place void of any light. She knows the cold just as well as Nancy does. She has found someone in the dark even though she cannot see, and she wants to cling to this someone, feel her presence because she has been alone for so long. It is frightening because she can no longer picture what her life was like before Nancy. She vaguely remembers a kind of bleakness, a relentless cold. Now that she knows what warmth feels like, she doesn’t want to return to where she was.

Nancy is doing it again—looking at her like she is the only who matters. Yeonwoo sees it in her eyes, in full pools of dark brown.

“Why did you say yes?”

“What?”

The girl is holding her hand tightly, almost too tightly that it feels anxious, like she’s holding on to something she is afraid of losing. The nervousness written all over her face makes Yeonwoo curl her fingers around the girl’s hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“When I asked you to listen. Why did you say yes?” Nancy repeats, voice tapering off at the end of the question.

“Because I am just as lost in the dark and then I found you,” Yeonwoo admits, staring at their intertwined fingers. “And I never want to let go.”

Raising her head to look at Nancy, she is greeted by tearful, sad eyes and trembling lips. Yeonwoo blinks in surprise as Nancy throws herself into Yeonwoo’s arms, haphazardly grabbing fistfuls of her blouse. Her tears leave wet stains on Yeonwoo’s blouse but Yeonwoo doesn’t mind, wrapping her arms around the shorter girl. Yeonwoo can feel the girl quiver in her embrace and she can only hug her tighter, hoping that she can feel the same amount of warmth Yeonwoo receives from her.

“Please never let me go.”

///

Yeonwoo knows something is wrong. She feels it in her bones on a rainy chilly evening, in a crowded train station, all alone.

Nancy is not here.

Her eyes search for Nancy, hoping to catch a glimpse of dark brown eyes accompanied by a wide grin that Yeonwoo has become familiar with. She tells herself not to panic, that maybe Nancy just stepped away to go to the washroom, or perhaps she needed a short break from singing too much. But her sign is no longer there, and Yeonwoo does not hear her voice anymore.

She backs away from the corner, walking around the train station. Her steps slowly quicken into a run and she’s frantically looking for Nancy. She bumps into people too many times and she gets cussed out, receiving dirty glares from people. She doesn’t stop. She rounds the station twice and does it repeatedly, afraid that she might have missed the shorter girl in the crowd.

Going back to the corner, she leans against the wall, legs gradually losing their strength. She feels for her phone in her jean pockets, digging it out hurriedly. Her hands are shaking as she attempts to dial Nancy’s number. Her lower lip is drawn between her teeth and she bites on it anxiously, waiting for the phone call to connect so that she can hear Nancy’s voice and it will all be okay. It rings once, twice, then thrice. And then it cuts, and the automated phone operator speaks, informing Yeonwoo that Nancy is not available to pick up the phone. She thumbs the button to end the call—it is not the voice that she wants to hear.

She tries again, entering the number she knows by heart and initiating another call. The same thing happens, and her vision is getting so blurry, she can hardly make out Nancy’s name on her phone screen. All she hears is the commotion of a sea of people and the static-like rain colliding against the roof. (All she hears is noise and not Nancy’s voice.)

Nancy’s brief existence withers and wanes away, almost like she never existed.

She can feel it spreading like a disease. It starts from the tips of her fingers and toes and creeps in through her veins, working its way into her. It takes away all her warmth, leaving trails of itself in its wake. It doesn’t even manifest, just flows in her, carried by the blood in her veins. The cold—it’s killing her, but she doesn’t die.

She’s so scared; she can feel the warmth ebb away and she shivers, gripping her coat tightly. She has had a taste of warmth and now she can no longer stand the cold. The darkness feels colder and emptier than ever now that she knows what warmth feels like. Her legs cannot carry her weight anymore and she collapses on the ground. No one helps her. (Only Nancy would, but she’s gone.)

Fumbling with her phone, she shakily goes through her gallery and searches for recordings of Nancy’s voice. She barely manages to press play and she hears Nancy’s pretty voice again. It is only a memory of her, not the real her, but Yeonwoo clings on to it, listens to every word, listens to her voice over and over again.

Yeonwoo keeps her promise of always listening to her voice. (It is all she has now.)

///

She goes back to her routine before she ever met Nancy. It is easy; things did not even change much in the first place when Nancy was there. People come and go, no one can stay forever, Yeonwoo knows this. It makes it less difficult for her to move on and she continues her life as usual, going to work, coming back to her apartment, and then working a little more. Yeonwoo swears it’s easy. But then she cries herself to sleep every night, only willing to admit, under the cover of darkness, that it isn’t easy at all.

Sometimes she dreams of Nancy, floating in a world that her mind has weaved out of meagre memories. The dreams are mostly of them together, fingers intertwined, basking in warm sunlight. She smiles in her dreams, feels the warmth overflow in her chest, feels her heart beat. When she wakes, there are wet stains on her pillow, and she can feel the warmth seep out of her slowly. There are times when she closes her eyes, tries to return to a dream that is out of her grasp, tries to hold on to any lingering warmth that is left. It never works, and she is left on her bed, struggling to breathe easy in the suffocating darkness.

The darkness pervades her even when it’s day. During her work hours, she catches herself drifting off, focus tossed off balance. Her work quality has been deteriorating and she has gotten told off for it several times already. She thinks she might get fired soon if she doesn’t pull up her socks, but she cannot find meaning in work anymore. The sluggishly increasing numbers in her bank account suddenly feels useless, save for the money she sends back home to her family. That is the only reason she continues working.

Even her colleagues, whom she hardly interacts with, have noticed. When Ahin, her cubicle neighbour, asks her if there is anything wrong, Yeonwoo realizes that she cannot pretend that it is easy any longer.

“Yeonwoo, you need to tell someone if there is something you cannot handle,” her colleague sighs, closing her laptop and turning towards Yeonwoo. “Maybe we can help.”

Yeonwoo only forces a smile, lies easily, “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay,” Ahin says, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t think you’ve ever felt okay.”

The words burn, like a plaster that has been forcibly ripped off a gaping, deep wound. It leaves her gasping for air, fingers clutching at her chest, tugging at her blouse. Ahin is starting to look blurry—from tears or the lack of air, Yeonwoo cannot tell. Her chest constricts painfully, the organ residing behind her ribs clenching and throbbing. She can vaguely feel a hand on her shoulder, but she can no longer distinguish between things.

Suddenly, everything hurts too much. What she recognizes as pain abruptly courses through her veins. It has been so long since she has felt something like this and she is reminded of why she needed to pretend, not just to convince everyone around her, but also to convince herself. The pain comes crashing in never-ending waves—just when she thinks it is about to subside, it comes again, rough and violent, like water gushing through a broken dam.

“Breathe,” someone tells her, and she barely manages to draw in a shaky breath.

Ahin comes into vision again and the girl looks so concerned, eyebrows tweaked down into a deep frown. Yeonwoo inhales sharply once more, her chest heaving. Ahin is wiping away tears she didn’t know escaped and she has to choke back a sob when she feels a warm hand on her own. She thinks that if Ahin takes her hand away, she might just break further than she already has. (She can’t take being let go of a second time.)

As if her thoughts were read, her colleague squeezes her hand firmly, like she would never let go. Yeonwoo’s heart lurches at the gesture, at the fact that someone is willing to stay despite all her baggage.

Though Ahin’s eyes are tinted with sadness, she still gives the brightest smile to Yeonwoo, “You’ve worked hard.”

Yeonwoo can feel the littlest of warmth budding in the recesses of heart. (It’s little, but it’s there.)

///

Little by little, with Ahin’s help, Yeonwoo starts piecing the broken parts of herself back together. Yeonwoo doesn’t tell her anything, doesn’t tell her about how exhausted she is, how she doesn’t think she can go back to her parents, doesn’t tell her about Nancy. She stays quiet and Ahin doesn’t press for it, opting to simply stay by her side when she can, sometimes even visiting her apartment to cook for her. (Ahin is a fantastic cook and hates how Yeonwoo only ever eats instant ramen and takeout.)

Her days are still dark and cold, but it is getting a little easier to get by. She even manages to answer a call from home, albeit brief and dismissive. She tells her parents that she is too busy to go back to her hometown even though she misses them, manages to hold back her tears till the call disconnected.

It is a start, except that she still listens to Nancy’s voice to fall asleep. When she listens to the girl’s voice, she pictures wide grins and eyes that only ever looked at her. She remembers that the love songs that Nancy sang were only for her (but they are not love songs anymore now that she isn’t here.) She is reminded of how she was let go of and how she will never see her again. Then she cries silently until she is lulled asleep by Nancy’s delicate voice and shattered memories.

Every morning, she wakes up to Nancy’s voice and she cries a little more. (But then she remembers to breathe and she’s not okay, but she’s better.)

The clock hits 6 and almost immediately, Yeonwoo sees a few of her colleagues gathering their things and saying goodbyes before heading out. Ahin turns towards her so quickly, she jumps a little.

“Yeonwoo, let’s go. Let’s have dinner with JooE,” she says excitedly.

“I still have work though,” Yeonwoo tries, not really enthusiastic about getting off work early to have dinner with someone she doesn’t quite know. “You go ahead.”

“You don’t have to finish all your work ahead of time, you know. JooE wants to get to know you and she’s a good person even though she’s rather loud. You’ll like her,” Ahin tries.

Yeonwoo sighs, admitting defeat, “Okay, I’ll pack my things.”

The two end up waiting a little for JooE to finish up a report before heading out together. Yeonwoo has talked to JooE before in a group setting, but never alone so she is slightly relieved that Ahin is there if things get awkward. Fortunately, JooE is an extroverted individual who talks the whole way, asking Yeonwoo personal questions but never overstepping her boundaries. Yeonwoo envies her even, her ability to naturally navigate and keep a light-hearted conversation going.

They enter a homey and relatively new restaurant. It’s small, but it comes off as cozy rather than claustrophobic. The waitress takes their orders quickly and leaves them to their own conversation. The restaurant has the radio on and it’s playing r and b music, filling the place with relaxing vibes.

“You know, Yeonwoo, you talk at work but you always seem so closed off. Spending time with you like this,” JooE gestures towards Yeonwoo and herself. “I like that you seem a lot more like yourself.”

Yeonwoo smiles thankfully, “I know that I was closed off. I bottle up my feelings a lot and Ahin helped me through a difficult time so I’m really grateful for that. Honestly, if not for her, I wouldn’t even be here talking to you.”

“Yeonwoo is a straight-up workaholic and she stresses herself a lot because of that,” Ahin adds, patting Yeonwoo’s hand lightly.

“Maybe she likes our boss, that’s why she spends so much time in the office,” JooE teases, guffawing when Yeonwoo scrunches her face at the thought of their superior.

Ahin’s face contorts in disgust and she wraps a protective arm around Yeonwoo’s shoulder, “Gross! Don’t even put that picture in my head! Yeonwoo is so pretty and precious, she deserves better than that!”

“I just like my work. Or maybe I’m just looking for a promotion and a chance to bully you guys,” she sing-songs, shrugging nonchalantly.

“You’ll only bully JooE, right?” Ahin hugs her a little tighter. “I’m your bestest friend, right?”

“What nonsense,” JooE scoffs. “Yeonwoo likes me most now.”

Yeonwoo’s attention is taken away from the conversation when she hears a familiar voice on the radio. She blinks in surprise, heart immediately clenching almost painfully in response. At first, she thinks that her suspicions are not possible, but they only grow stronger as the person on the radio continues speaking.

“Honestly, debuting was my dream and I would have done anything for this opportunity so I’m really thankful. The only downside is that I don’t have my phone anymore and I cannot see my friend. She was my only true friend and my only audience. She promised she would always listen to my voice, so I really hope she’ll listen to my song,” Yeonwoo hears.

Her lips quivers as she hears the person talk. She is still vaguely aware of her friends talking still but she cannot hear them; all she hears is her.

“This song is for her,” the speaker says, like a confession. “It’s called Empathy.”

It’s a voice she knows by heart. The lyrics of the song feels familiar somehow, like she already knew all the words. Warmth floods her heart and she feels all the weight she always held leave her. Her heart is thrumming in her chest and she has never felt so light, so free.

She breathes easy now.

Relishing in the comfort the warmth brings, she smiles to herself knowingly. She feels her heart beat to the rhythm of the song—the song that is only meant for her. It is a confession, a love letter, Yeonwoo knows that now.

As the last words of the song fade away, she finally feels the light of the evening sun dance on her skin.

The radio switches to another channel but the light does not go away. She is brought back to her reality—in a restaurant, with her friends, with the light basking her in an orange glow.

“Yah! Yeonwoo, have you been listening to this crazy person?” Ahin waves a hand, frowning as she points to JooE in annoyance.

Both JooE and her laugh, “Honestly, no, I haven’t been listening.”

“Stop daydreaming and help me deal with her!” Ahin exclaims.

“I was listening to the radio. It was a good song,” she shrugs, chuckling a little at Ahin’s exasperated look.

“I should have known bringing JooE was a terrible idea,” Ahin facepalms.

Yeonwoo laughs.

///

When she finally arrives home, she turns on all the lights, stretching as she does so. She surprises herself when she doesn’t feel the ache in her lower back or the stabbing pain in her heels. Perhaps it is the result of taking things a little easier—she has been going home a little earlier than usual these days thanks to Ahin. It is doing her a lot of good because she feels less tired and more energetic recently. She really needs to thank her friends; she could treat them to dinner tomorrow.

She takes a quick shower before continuing her work. Somehow, she finishes it early, probably because she no longer feels exhausted. Her phone vibrates, and she picks it up from her desk, smiling when she sees who the call is from. Thumbing the accept button, she brings the phone to her ear.

“Hello? Mum?”

“Yeonwoo, your father and I are just checking in. It’s been a while since you called us.”

“You and dad worry too much. I’m fine,” Yeonwoo reassures.

She hears her mum sigh, “We just miss you.”

Yeonwoo feels the contriteness weigh her heart down but she perks up, “Mum, I’ll come home and visit you this weekend. Is that okay?”

“That’s more than okay! I can’t imagine how long it has been since you ate homecooked food!” she can feel her mother’s excitement radiating through her phone.

“My friend comes over to cook sometimes, but I miss your cooking so much.”

“I’ll make all your favourite dishes. It’s late so you should go to bed. Take care of yourself now, okay?” her mother nags a little and Yeonwoo misses it.

“I’m not a kid, mum. I can take care of myself. I’ll see you on Saturday then. I love you. Bye.”

The call disconnects, and she smiles to herself. She can finally go home. She cannot wait to see her parents again, be in their loving embrace, be _home_. When she sees those eyes, lined with wrinkles, but filled with the most genuine love, she’ll finally be able to tell them _I’ll take care of you_.

She turns off the living room lights and moves to her bedroom. She slides into bed, covering herself with a warm duvet. It’s still not as warm as the one back home, but her heart is full of warmth, so it no longer matters anymore. She smiles, snuggling under the covers, looking forward to tomorrow. Before she closes her eyes, she switches on her bedside lamp.

This time, she leaves a light on—for herself.

**Author's Note:**

> There might be an epilogue so stay tuned! :)


End file.
